


postcards

by novel_concept26



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: A fill for a Tumblr prompt: may I submit two brief proposals vis-á-vis the postcards on Jamie and Dani's fridge: 1) Once they've settled into ife in Vermont, they go through a phase where they decide they're going to see as much of the USA as they can (while they still can) and the postcards are the result of that adventure. 2) For a while, Miles and Flora send them postcards somewhat regularly, and they always go straight on the fridge. Eventually, the cards stop coming, but the old ones stay up.
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Comments: 10
Kudos: 222





	postcards

For the first few months, Dani can’t sit still. It’s the strangest damn thing, because she’s never been that kind of person. Dani is patient. Dani is patient to a _fault_ , even. She can sit for an hour or more, waiting for a child’s stubborn facade to crack away and let her in. She’s trained herself to draw up lesson plans at night over a glass of wine, moving through the subjects with comfortable ease. She’s lost hours staring into the fire, mulling over old mistakes and older fears. Dani is genuinely good at sitting still, thinking things out, making a decision only when the pot has boiled over at last.

But these days, after leaving Bly, it’s like that pot never runs dry. It’s just burbling there on an indefinite loop, and no matter how she tries to calm it, she always seems to turn around to find boiling water splashing around her feet. Sooner or later, she thinks, it’s going to burn her. 

It’s better, she finds quickly, if she’s in motion. If her brain isn’t so occupied with that inward gaze that has done her such harm over the years, if she won’t let herself just lay on her back and stare at a dark ceiling, searching for patterns that Jamie insists, _insists_ are not there, it doesn’t feel so...so...

So much like being watched. 

She moves. She moves, and Jamie moves with her. Jamie has gotten so good so fast at reading her moods: at looking up over a morning cup of tea and seeing something behind Dani’s eyes that wasn’t there last night. She’s afraid to ask what that something might be, but Jamie only ever raises her eyebrows, raises her cup in a salute, and says, “Where to, then, Poppins?”

Jamie, as always, giving her permission. So, they move. From England to Vermont, for starters, and it’s so much more than Dani remembered America being. Bigger. Colder. She feels like she’s always looking over her shoulder, and maybe that isn’t so new. Maybe that’s why she came out to Bly in the first place. But now, now it’s different. Now she peeks into reflections with the hopeful terror of a child who almost _wants_ to catch a glimpse of the monster beneath the bed, because at least seeing it would mean the damn thing is _there._ Waiting. Watching. Breathing down the back of her neck like the soft brush of otherworldly fingers, ready to clamp tight. 

They hit Vermont, and Jamie doesn’t seem to mind that Dani sometimes leaps out of bed at sunrise and spends the next eighteen hours doing laps around their life. The grocery store. The bank. The apartment. She pings from one to the next like an out-of-control meteor on its way to an extinction event, and Jamie just watches. Just raises her eyebrows. Lays a hand gently around her wrist. Says, “All right, there, Poppins?”

And, no. No, it isn’t all right. But it’s better. Better than sitting alone in a room in that big, sprawling house where the walls are lined with memories of Hannah’s smile and Owen’s terrible sense of humor and those perfect, glorious, sad children she loves so much, even now. 

They’re in Vermont for a month when the itch gets too big to sit on any longer. When she physically can’t calm herself with the now-familiar route of errand and takeout pizza and trying to figure out how adults put together a home they actually want to live in. One night, with rain playing havoc on the apartment windows, with gusts slamming the panes so hard, she thinks they might shatter, she turns her eyes to Jamie. 

“Texas?”

It’s a million miles away from their home, which is growing rapidly warm and cozy and green under their care, and she thinks Jamie’s going to say something. About how maybe they could just start small. Maybe they could just take it easy. But Jamie just takes her hand, raises it to her lips, presses a kiss to the smooth skin just below her palm. 

“Texas, then. Why not?”

Texas is huge and rambling and a kind of wicked dry-hot England has never so much as joked about, and they spend a week just...walking. Poking into dive bars, where Jamie proves herself unaccountably good at pool, and little cafes, where Dani makes weak jokes about strong coffee. Holding hands under the table in restaurants mostly laid bare by late evening. Jamie smiles at her, and Dani feels the thing inside curl up a little tighter. Sink a little lower in her chest. 

The states spiral out like a summer sky after that, one after another. In Louisiana, they fall into good food and better music, dancing beneath the stars until Jamie is spinning her so fast, their laughter rings breathless through the night air. In Georgia, they pick fresh fruit and explore bookstores that smell like childhood ought to, and Jamie presses her into a kiss so warm and inviting that Dani almost forgets time exists outside of their lips. In Illinois, they explore a big city; in New York, a bigger one. The world sprawls, rolls, lands with all the care of heaped-up leaves on an October morning, and Dani lets herself fall. Into Michigan’s northern beauty, into California’s almost too-hip chatter, into the history of Washington and the quiet of Montana. Everywhere they go, the world feels a little more solid beneath her feet. Everywhere they go, Jamie’s hand is so steady in her own. 

They’re laying together in a hotel room in Boston when Jamie presses her to the bed and buries her face in her neck and Dani, for the first time in months, actually forgets. The world vibrates to a standstill around them, the music of other bodies through the walls fading to a distant tempo, and Jamie’s hands are confident, and Jamie’s kiss is searing, and Dani hasn’t felt this _solid_ since--since--

She gasps, and for a minute, cold fear grips her from the inside: that Jamie’s going to raise her eyes and see that terrified girl again, the one who couldn’t be touched for longer than a second without doubling back on her own guilt. Maybe she’s still that girl, she thinks. Maybe she’s still back there, in some way, folding around her own secrets so tight, it’s astonishing she never shattered like one of her mother’s porcelain dolls. 

And then Jamie is raising her head, looking her in the eyes, and she’s smiling. The same smile from the night she first laid all the cards out on the table, inviting Dani to hold her, inviting Dani to know her for real. The world swims, and Dani wraps her arms around Jamie’s neck, and there is nothing watching this time. Nothing lurking. Nothing dark, or hungry, or wild. The desperation is the right kind, her own kind, the kind she and Jamie make together in these moments that never seem to last long enough. She exhales, and she feels like Dani Clayton in every atom. 

The postcards are Jamie’s idea. The steadiness so often is, Dani will note in later years, Jamie’s idea. Maybe because Jamie didn’t know what steadiness felt like until she was in her twenties. Maybe because Jamie is still waiting for it to skid out from under her boots. One day, in a little Midwestern town Dani’s already forgotten the name of, Jamie says, “We should send them a card.”

She doesn’t have to explain who. They both know how much they miss those kids. Both can feel it in the empty spaces at the table where there should be creaking chairs, shrieking sugar-laughter, the soft chuckle of adults learning how to laugh again at a child’s jokes. Jamie reaches out to a counter display, plucks a card plastered with a mountain so majestic, it might as well be made-up. She hands it and a pen to Dani, and nods. 

“They’ll like it.”

And they do. The postcard, and so many like it, go out--and, when they find their way back home at last, when Dani feels as though the adrenaline has cooled enough to let her breathe, to let the world rest like it did in that room back in Boston, the cards come back in. Fresh ones, painted with Disney characters and cherry blossoms and silly phrases about wishing they were _there_. Flora’s handwriting is getting better; Miles’, somehow, worse. They tack each one on the fridge as they come, leaning against the kitchen counter, remembering how it felt to breathe the air in Oregon, how the ocean licked around their ankles in Florida. 

The memories help. They’re grounding, somehow. To look at these tiny cards, the edges turning up from the handling of small fingers, and say, _We did this. This was real. We were real there, and so are they._

It makes her feel a little less like vibrating out of her skin with every card on that fridge. With every afternoon helping Jamie arrange flowers at the shop. With every evening bottle of wine, every stolen cigarette in bed, every shower Jamie pretends to be grumpy about her sliding into, the world resolves itself into a little more clarity. _We’re doing this. This is real. We are here, even if they’re not._

Slowly, slowly, as paper months burn and reveal bound-up yearbooks in their place, Dani finds she’s breathing through the panic. That the panic is, in fact, coming less and less frequently. That she’s sleeping through the night, turned toward Jamie always, the beam of light in the darkness she never has to question. The shop is flourishing. The apartment shows no sign of monsters in its corners. She’s thinking of Christmas again, but this time, the word she lands on isn’t _if_. 

The postcards are slowing. More and more of them turn up, when they turn up at all, in the neat, fidgety hand of Henry Wingrave. The words have far less heart, far more reality behind them. The kids are doing fine, just fine. They’re settling out quite nicely in California. You really should visit someday, you’d be quite welcome. 

She holds this invitation, elbows propped on the counter, and sighs. Jamie, who has been performing her nightly ritual of burning whatever she happens to put on the stove and inventing swear words so righteous, Dani can’t help but laugh, glances over her shoulder. 

“Something wrong?”

“They’re growing up,” Dani says, and there’s a tightness in her voice she doesn’t expect. A sharp needle behind her eyes. She raises a hand, drags her fingers across her face before the tears can fall and spoil the blue ink on the card. 

Arms slide around her waist, Jamie coming to rest against her body with all the familiarity of falling asleep. Her lips press to the thin cotton of Dani’s shirt, warm, understanding. 

“I hear that’s the idea. Of kids and all.”

She knows. Of course she knows. And what’s the alternative, but something built of horror and trauma? They’re growing up, and they’re growing up _happy_ , and that’s...incredible, really. After all of it. 

“Hey.” Jamie tilts her body until Dani tilts with her, coming away from the counter enough for Jamie to close the distance. Her hands are soft on the back of Dani’s head. So steady. So present. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no,” Dani says, unable to help herself. Jamie’s brow wrinkles, her tongue poking out, and Dani kisses her before the joke has time to sting. 

“Serious, Poppins. This is serious.”

“Right. Sorry.” She arranges her own face in a parody of solemn contemplation. Jamie rolls her eyes. “No, go ahead. I’m listening.”

She slides her hands under the flannel of Jamie’s shirt, letting her fingers splay across Jamie’s ribs. She’s always liked this, right here, the sense that Jamie is more real than anything in the world. More real than night terrors. More real than the heartbeat she sometimes hears in the back of her head when she’s been standing still too long. 

“You’re distracting, is what you are,” Jamie says, sounding the least upset about it she possibly could. Dani hums. 

“Stalling.”

“I was _thinking_ ,” Jamie repeats, eyes rolling toward the ceiling in a show of great restraint when Dani presses her hips forward. “We’ve seen an awful lot of this barbaric country you call home.”

“ _We_ call home,” Dani points out, grinning. Jamie nods. 

“But. S’been a minute, hasn’t it? Since we’ve seen what they’re up to across the pond. I was thinking, maybe--if you’re up for it, mind--we could...ring up Owen? See if he’s willing to bear a couple of grungy wanderers on his doorstep for a couple of days...”

It’s a distraction, Dani knows. Just something to get her mind off of the kids, of the truly palpable sense that something huge and important is beginning to drift too far out to catch. And yet...

The months roll into years. The years are quiet. They’ve been quiet so much longer than she thought she’d have. But somewhere deep down, somewhere beneath miles and miles of long kisses and meandering car rides and Jamie burning every other dinner they scrounge together...there’s something still down there, she knows. Waiting. Watching. 

“Lot more postcards out there,” Jamie says, with the light and airy tone of someone who knows Dani is looking over the edge of something too dark and too deep to climb back out of. “Could send an awful lot more, is all I’m saying.”

Sure. Sure, they could. There’s so much world out there, so much to see. She’d like to see it all, if only she had the time. She’d like to see every last inch. 

And maybe...maybe it’ll be enough. To keep moving. To keep their world spinning too long, too fast, for the beast to catch up with. She can’t know for sure. Jamie says it often enough, and she’s not wrong: Dani will never be able to say how much longer the running can last. 

But for now? While the beast holds still, and those kids still hold her name, and Jamie holds her like nothing else in the world matters?

“I think I’d like that,” she says, and feels steadier than she has in years. 


End file.
